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This Thursday, January 19 is a day of reckoning for my mouth.

I think by most people’s standards I am a responsible adult. I go for my annual physical, pay my bills on time, and almost always make my bed. But I do have one or two immature and irresponsible tendencies, one of which is an irrational fear and subsequent lifelong avoidance of what many people consider to be an oral rite of passage.

I avoided going to the dentist for … well, a lot of years (I just can’t bring myself to put the number in writing) supposedly due to lack of insurance but mostly because I didn’t want to hear bad news.  I particularly feared the dreaded wisdom teeth removal, and although I vaguely remembered some dull jaw pain in my early twenties, I remained for the most part blissfully unaware that I had them. I figured as long as I didn’t go near a dentist’s office I could go on pretending this was true.

As a particular milestone birthday began to loom on the horizon I decided that it was time to be a big girl, cough up the cash, and make my health a priority. So I picked a dentist and began to make regular visits to his office.

My dentist is a young man, well educated and respected in his field. He is a musician by avocation and expects me to discuss my group’s current repertoire in specific detail while he sticks both hands in my mouth. He gives off a whiff of arrogance, but I find his confidence reassuring. His office is within walking distance of my house and is open late three days a week. And he has a very nice receptionist.

At my first appointment in January of 2010 he told me that my mouth looked healthy – remarkably so given the lack of oversight by a dental professional – but that I needed to have my wisdom teeth out. I smiled and nodded.

In August 2010 he told me that I really needed to have my wisdom teeth out. He said something about crowding, impacted blah blah stuff that makes me cringe. I said something about money; he told me it was really quite affordable with local anesthesia. I made some feeble argument about a previously scheduled inner ear surgery for that winter; he assured me that my head could handle two procedures in one season. I silently vowed to sneak out the door, but while I was rinsing my mouth he stepped out and told the very nice receptionist not to let me leave without scheduling the procedure. I booked an appointment for February 18.

I walked home feeling quite proud of myself for having taken this step towards a healthier me. I had booked the appointment. I had no fear.

February 18, 2011 found me not in my dentist’s chair but on a flight to Italy. I wish I could tell you I’m kidding, but I’m not.

When I told the very nice receptionist I would not be coming, she very nicely assured me that it’s not so bad, that lots of people are scared, and that I was welcome to wear headphones to drown out the sound of cracking teeth and hug a teddy bear while the good doctor yanked my head back and forth.

Well okay, she probably didn’t word it exactly like that, but I was too busy wiping my tears to catch the finer details.

I’m pretty sure my dentist thinks I am a gigantic wuss. But when I did finally make it in for my next cleaning I let him know that I simply would not – could not – undergo an extraction in his office under local anesthesia. Frankly, I think tears and a flight to Rome were entirely justified. So he referred me to an oral surgeon, and a few months later (why rush these things?) I was in her chair for a consultation.

She agreed that they have to come out, the sooner the better. I took a deep breath and told her that I would do it, but that being knocked out was imperative – I want not even the vaguest recollection of the procedure. She let me know that at my age, general anesthesia is recommended due to an increased risk of surgical complications.

At my age. Some people think I could pass for a high school student. Not my oral surgeon, apparently.

So I sat down with another very nice receptionist and told her that August wouldn’t work, because I’d like to enjoy my vacation, and the entire fall was booked because of the musical, and December was no good because who wants to be on a liquid diet at Christmas, and January is festival season, and in February there’s Presidents Day …

The very nice receptionist booked me for January 19.

This is, no doubt, not the last you will read of my dental adventures. Because let’s be honest, I’m not thinking about anything else this week. I know that this procedure is performed every day in dentist’s offices all over the world. You’ve probably had it, and it was probably not such a big deal. But I am going to worry and fret until I wake up with a mouth full of packing, because that’s just what I do.

Think of me what you will, but note this: I have not booked any flights this week.